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Chapter 10 - Vengeance (TCOK)
Tubba had barely slept the night after his father’s death. It was so unexpected, so horrible. The guiding force in his life had been ripped from him by the same large orange Clubba that gave him so much trouble. Fury pounded into Tubba, until it was too much to even stay in the castle. The Castle was next to deserted. Everyone was in the throne room, paying respects to the fallen King. Clubbar would prepare Tubba Sr.’s funeral, where he would be buried in a grand tomb behind the Castle, just like his forefathers, the Clubbas, had been buried, for seasons upon seasons. Tubba wanted to scream with indignation. It was too soon. His tomb was supposed to be the grandest ever, because of the sheer time the sculptors, painters, and various other builders had to construct it. All of that, ruined, by that nosy orange Clubba Bubba! Tubba slammed his fist angrily on the floor of the foyer, not caring how loud a noise it made, not caring how much his hand ached, screaming internally. He raced to the basement. He needed to get as far away from the Castle as possible. He needed to find Bubba. He needed to make Bubba pay. These feelings, Tubba knew, had always been told to linger inside his grandfather, Karubba. The unrelenting desire to exert his revenge, for years upon years of wronging. Karubba had always been painted by his father as a vicious leader, one that Tubba should never aspire to. In the wake of his father’s death, however, Tubba realized that if he was to be a leader his father would be proud of, it would have to be Karubba’s style of leadership. The desire for revenge. The last words his father spoke to him echoed in his ears. “''If you fail me- I have to make decisions for the betterment of the Kingdom, not for my children.''” Tubba knew he failed his father. He was not there when his father needed him. However, those words would be what he would live by. Decisions must be made for the betterment of the Kingdom, not for Tubba’s family. Tubba’s father wanted Tubba to not be Karubba. The Kingdom would benefit most if he was Karubba. Deep in the basement, there was a weapons storage of old Kings and Queens of the Clubba Kingdom. Tubba had gone into the dusty room, and had thrown away the club his father had given him at birth. It was indicative of the old Tubba, the one who would accept Bubba’s relentless bullying, the belief that Chubba was better than him, and the despair that flooded through him when his father thought Chubba was better. Stretching out his young red fingers, Tubba felt energy surge through his body as he grasped the gnarled and old wood of Karubba’s old club in the dim light of the weapons storage. Countless battles had been fought with this club, countless blood had been spilled on it, and it was the weapon Karubba held in his hands as he was defeated and ceased to exist. Blowing off the dust, Tubba’s muscles were taut with power as he lifted up Karubba’s club. He was a red Clubba. Karubba was a red Clubba. Tubba had more in common with Karubba than he did with all of the other immediate royal Clubbas. Lifting the club high to skies, Tubba let his emotions echo through in a scream. Sorrow from the death of his father, disappointment at the last words he shared with him, rage at Chubba’s upstart claim to the throne, fury at Bubba’s hand in his father’s death. Everything that was him would be in this club. * The next morning, Tubba knew what he was going to do. He was going to confront Bubba. He knew Bubba, along with most of the city, would be following the funeral procession route through the city, which would take them next to the Clubba Cliff, where Tubba was waiting. He wanted to confront Bubba. He wanted to make Bubba feel the pain he was feeling, the emptiness of losing his father. He wanted Bubba to understand the pain he had caused him, something that seemed beyond him. Tubba didn’t care what it took: he would slam it into Bubba’s thick orange skull. Tubba refused to answer Clubbar as the Commander of the Armies pounded on his bedroom door to ask for the heir’s presence at the funeral, with the coffin being solemnly taken around the city, before it would ring around to the Clubba Cliff on the final route to the tombs behind the Clubba Castle, where Tubba’s father would be interred. He slipped out of the Castle after he was sure Clubbar and the rest of the procession had left, heading toward the Cliff, Karubba’s club in his hand. It was a dichotomy of emotions that beset him: fear, anger, sadness, frustration, but above all, rage juxtaposed with a curious sense of calmness. It was as if he did not care about the things that had previously worried him, his inadequacies, his worries, whether the subjects would think he would be the greater King than his younger brother. As he strode across the sands, he allowed himself to scope out the feeling in his stomach: it was a burning sense of confidence, lapping hungrily at his insides, sending power echoing through each limb of his body. It was a hardened desire: there was no need to allow himself to get bogged down by his thoughts, not when he was supremely confident in himself. His mind was stunningly clear. “Hey, you!” A weight slammed the back of Tubba’s head, sending him crashing to the sandstone rocks just before the Clubba Cliff and forcing the flame of desire in his stomach to flicker. Pushing himself back to his feet, Tubba found himself facing three larger Clubbas - one emerald, one yellow... and one orange. Bubba Clubbith had waltzed over to him, having decided to skip the procession. A blatant show of disrespect. From Bubba’s smug face, Tubba could realize that the orange Clubba felt no emotion for his role in the death of their King. Tubba’s father. Suddenly, in one quick movement, he lashed out with his grandfather’s club, nailing Bubba in the midsection and throwing him backwards. Laff and Snubba, his two cohorts, yelled disparaging things out of shock, causing Tubba’s mouth to split into a wry smile as the rage began to take over the sense of calmness. Swinging out firmly with his left fist, he sent Laff staggering backwards, and swinging his tail ferociously, he knocked Snubba’s feet out from underneath him. The fury he was feeling allowed him courage, bravery, ferocity: something he would need. Tubba could see Bubba’s orange head highlighted against the pale white sky, having been thrown backwards by Tubba’s initial assault. His eyes blazed with anger, but Tubba could have laughed in the face of it. There was nothing Bubba could feel that was more intense, more enraged, more angry than Tubba was now. Racing forward, leaving both Snubba and Laff still trying to process what was happening, Tubba swung again with his club. Bubba threw up his hands to defend himself, but Tubba’s sheer anger was too much for him. Tubba’s club scythed through the scales on Bubba’s fingers, scouring massive scars down his legs, and sending his head shaking with a savage blow. He began to knock Bubba backwards, toward the Clubba Cliff. Fear flashed in Bubba’s eyes. Tubba barely internalized it, hammering away with his club with all the vengeance he wanted. “Tubba, wait!” Bubba exclaimed, barely reaching Tubba’s internal ears through the blood pounding through them. “Tubba, I’m going to fall!” Tubba didn’t listen. One firm strike, and Bubba tipped off the edge of the Clubba Cliff, his orange body slipping out of sight, leaving just a pale white sky. Standing there panting, Tubba felt the rage dissipate, to be replaced by a hollow feeling in his belly. He could hear Snubba and Laff screaming next to him, but it seemed like it was coming from far away. A hard stone in his belly, he peered over the edge of the Cliff: was there a chance Bubba had landed in the water instead of the rock ledges? No. There was not. The sight Tubba saw was grotesque. Silence descended over the scene. Turning around, Tubba realized that he, Snubba and Laff were no longer alone. At the head of countless Clubbas, proceeding silently and now standing silently with shock, staring at him, was Clubbar. The procession had arrived at the Clubba Cliff. Tubba was hit with a sudden image of himself. Hair wild, crazed look in his eyes, blood-red scales stained with more blood. And something having fallen over the cliff. He sought out Gonzales’ eyes in the crowd, finding the dark blue Clubba standing among the masses in a moment that could have been countless minutes or a split second. He had not meant to do that. He had meant to make Bubba pay... but not like that. Laff and Snubba raced toward the procession, screaming: “Tubba killed Bubba!” Their cries were like hot daggers slicing through cold butter, breaking the sound of the wind blowing intensely and the silence that was contrary to the amount of Clubbas present. There was no way he could stay in Gusty Gulch anymore. A thought that would’ve once crippled him... inspired him. Regret was already settling in: he had never meant to do that. It would haunt him forever. Turning away from the procession, Tubba looked over the Cliff again. Just beyond Bubba’s body were the waves. If he had fallen less abruptly, with a bit more horizontal momentum: he would still be alive. The white waters frothed at the edge of the Cliff, reminding him of how dangerous it would be, but Tubba could not turn and face the procession. He could not face them. Not that he cared about the repercussions and whispers, the need to redeem himself in the eyes of his subjects; it was because he could see freedom, and turning back would make him lose it. For the first time in his life: he could see freedom. Reaching into his shell, he brought out the golden coin that all Clubban heirs had held. Throwing it onto the ground, he drove Karubba’s club onto it, shattering it into pieces. “Tubba, no!” Clubbar exclaimed, breaking the silence, but Tubba was already bracing his muscles for the jump. He dove off the cliff, plunging into the white waters of the sea.